"Oh, really?" he said neutrally. "That's not good."
"It's not good the way it's going down," I told him, watching him cock a curious eyebrow at me. I pressed on. "There's no reason why you shouldn't be getting a cut of that business. Those girls are working on your clock. Any money they make... well, that's only because you give them the opportunity to dance here."
I paused and waited for his reaction. I saw it... just the tiniest of uplift to the corners of his mouth and deep interest in his eyes.
Still... he was cautious with me, because I was not in the circle of trust yet. "But prostitution is illegal. I don't need that kind of heat."
I snorted hard... for dramatic effect, and leaned forward in my chair. "Don't matter if you don't get caught," I told him smugly. "I just hope you're getting a fair cut off that action for yourself."
Simon's eyes narrowed for an instant, and then he opened the door for me, giving me my first glimpse inside his circle. There were only two people there that I knew of so far. Simon Keyes and his right-hand man, Lance Portman.
"I already know the girls are fucking for money, and I get a cut," he said, while flicking off imaginary lint from the corner of his suit coat. His gaze was intent, gauging me for weakness.
I expected no different, and my answer was ready. I wanted to show him I was ready to be in the circle.
"Not really surprised," I said with praise, stroking his already over-inflated ego. "You're a savvy businessman after all. But I can make you more money."
He looked at me thoughtfully and leaned forward on his desk. "How's that?"
"I've got some experience in this. Right now, you've got a handful of regular customers that partake. I'm betting I could vet out additional potential customers, set a price menu... charge big because these fuckers will pay for it, and then you split the net with the girls fifty-fifty. Plus, I can smell an undercover cop a mile away."
This was true since I was a cop myself, but that was something Simon would never know. I needed to get word to my handler that the local police needed to lay off Simon for a while... let this little prostitution scheme play out so I could use it as a platform to get Simon to trust me further.
"And what do you want out of this? For your troubles?" he asked with a hard glint in his eye.
I leaned forward and looked at him confidently. "Ten percent off the top. I'll increase the business, keep the girls safe, and make sure you never get busted by the cops."
Simon's eyes gleamed with greed, and I knew it was a done deal.
Although the thought of being a john caused my stomach to roll, at least I was now inside the circle of trust.
Of course, my ten-percent take goes straight into evidence, to add onto the other charges I hope to layer on top of this guy until he's buried.
I reach the top of the stairs, turn right, and make my way down a narrow hallway that houses three of the VIP rooms. Each one is furnished with couches, plush chairs, and a private stripper pole. Each room also has a large, tinted glass wall that overlooks the interior of the club, so the VIP patrons can watch the private show or watch what's going on down on the stage.
I open the door to VIP Two and find Misty sitting on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, filing her nails in bored fashion. She's wearing a red corset trimmed in black lace, a thong, and black platform heels. Her blonde hair is up in her trademark long ponytail. She once confided in me that she wears it that way so her hair doesn't get in the way when she's sucking a guy off.
Classy, that one is.
Two of our repeat customers who take advantage of the VIP rooms a few times a week stand over in the corner. The one, who I know goes by Scott, marches up to me angrily.
"We've paid the bitch, and now she won't put out," he says, spittle flying everywhere.
I calmly wipe a spot from under my eye and look over at Misty. "That true?"
She looks up at me, her dark eyes wide and innocent. "He wants double penetration, and I don't take it up the ass for a measly five hundred. If that's all they can pay, one can have my pussy and the other my mouth."
I fight hard not to grimace with distaste but turn back to the men. "It's a thousand for what you guys want. If five hundred is all you have, then you get some mouth/pussy action but that's it."
The guys grumble but pull out their wallets, pulling out an extra five-hundred dollars. Scott counts through it quickly and then hands it to Misty, muttering curse words. She calmly takes the money, stuffs it in the garter around her leg, and then proceeds to start removing her corset.
I turn around to leave, knowing my work is done.
"You should stay and watch." I hear Misty, and my head swivels back her way. "Scotty-boy here is pretty drunk, and I'm not feeling exactly safe with them. You should stay... you know, to make sure things don't get out of hand."
I can't help myself. This time, my nose crinkles up in disgust. "You'll be safe," I assure her with confidence, and then pin the men with a direct stare. "These guys will be extra gentle, right?"
They both nod quickly, although their eyes are immediately pinned to Misty's ginormous boobs that pop free from the corset.
"Good then. You guys have a fun time," I say, turning away once more.
"That's too bad," Misty says in a mocking tone. "I know you'd enjoy watching me work, Raze."
"Not my thing," I say without even looking back over my shoulder. Walking out of the door, I shut it softly behind me.
God, I fucking hate this part of the operation. Peddling ass to sleazy men that are here cheating on their wives in order to ride the next big thrill. It's fucking abysmal, so I keep reminding myself that the end goal will save numerous women.
When this sting is over, I know I'm probably going to bath in Clorox just to get the slime off me. I also know that after this, my undercover days are over.
Chapter 2
Andrea
I wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks, thankful the black material won't show the wet trail I'm leaving behind. Taking a deep breath, I knock on the SAC's door and let it out slowly while I wait for admittance.
"It's open," I hear the gruff voice say from within. Squaring my shoulders, I turn the knob and push the door inward.
FBI Special Agent in Charge, Dale Lambert sits behind his desk, which is covered with stacks of files and empty, paper coffee cups. His silver hair, though, is sharply styled and his dark, charcoal-gray suit is pressed to perfection.
He looks up and gives me a blank look. "What can I do for you, Somerville?"
"You wanted to see me, sir?" I ask as I clasp my hands behind my back, legs slightly parted to stand at attention.
"Right," he says distractedly and starts digging through the stacks of files on his desk. "Take a seat. There's something I want to discuss with you."
My heart starts racing, and I try to maintain my rigid posture as I stride around one of the chairs that sits opposite of his desk. I sit down, perched on the edge, with my back ramrod straight. I clasp my sweaty hands in my lap and pray that he has the news that I've been dreaming of getting.
Four months ago, I applied to the Behavioral Research and Instruction Unit of the FBI or, because the FBI loves its abbreviations, the BRIU. I asked my SAC, Dale Lambert, for his recommendation, and he gladly gave it although he said he'd hate to lose me in the Pittsburgh field office where I've been assigned to him for the past two years. I've been through the interview process with the BRIU--three to be exact--and while I know it's a long shot--I can't help but keep my hopes up. I've never let anything stand in the way of my goals before.
Even at the cost of sacrificing something very important.
The reason it's a long shot for me to get accepted is because I've only been a special agent with the FBI for going on two years now. I've worked in the Criminal Investigative Division at the Pittsburgh field office since then and while I've done some pretty boring shit like background checks for new federal hires, I've also been a part of some interesting investigations ranging
from violent to white-collar crimes.
Lambert pulls a file out, flips through it briefly, and then hands it to me. "The Raleigh field office is doing a joint investigation with the local police of a potential sex slavery ring. They need a female agent to go undercover."
I take the file from his hands even as dejection courses through me. Definitely not what I had wanted to hear. Not that this couldn't be a great opportunity, but I was really hoping he was going to tell me I was on the way to Quantico instead.
"There's been no word from the BRIU so get that forlorn look of despondency off your face," he growls at me.
My eyes snap to his, and I smooth out my facial features. I don't address his most recent statement, asking instead, "Don't they have an agent in Raleigh that can do this?"
The question isn't inappropriate. I'm merely curious because our field offices are usually well staffed. It's rare to have to go out on loaner when agents abound.
"Not one as qualified as you," he says with a sheepish smile.
"As qualified as me?"
"The head of this ring is Simon Keyes. He's a mid-level criminal, done some time. But he's smart and slick, and they don't have any hard evidence tying him to the traffic. We believe he uses a strip club he owns as the front and is pulling his stock from the dancers."
I nod in immediate and clear understanding, dropping my gaze back down to the file. "Of course I'm qualified then," I say softly, with absolutely no embarrassment whatsoever.
"Look kid," Dale says gruffly. "You're not the only special agent who worked a stripper pole in her life. You just happen to be the only female one in the FBI right now that's not immersed in another case at the moment. Plus, you have a southern accent and your cover will be as a local girl on the down and out."
I snicker and start flipping through the file. It's true enough... I know how to work a pole and work it good. I paid my way through undergrad and law school just dancing part time. It's not something I'm overly proud of, but it sure as hell isn't something I'm ashamed of either. I came out of school with two impressive degrees and not a dime of debt to my name. Of course, the FBI knows all about my "prior career," as I truthfully disclosed that information on my application. This was not a deterrent to getting in, because unlike most dancers, I actually reported my wages and tips and paid the appropriate taxes on my income. It was a legitimate job, and while I was grilled hard about it during my interview process before getting into the Academy, it was ultimately something the FBI didn't really care about.
Until now.
"What do they want me to do?" I ask with interest, my stomach now starting to fill with butterflies of excitement over the case. While I really, really want to get into the BRIU and do crime analysis, I get super charged up over helping to bring down any type of crime ring.
"Undercover. They already have a local cop on the inside, and he's well entrenched. He's ready to help coordinate a sting, and they don't want to put a civilian at risk. They need an agent to pose as a dancer. Be bait, so to speak."
"That I can do," I say solemnly as I flip through the file, looking at the color photographs of the women believed to have been abducted and sold.
So many of them.
"Knew you'd be up for this. And listen... you know the BRIU is selective. Your lack of experience hurts, but if you complete a successful undercover mission that brings down a slave ring, you know your chances of getting accepted increase tenfold."
My face tilts up to his, and I can't hide the smile of opportunity from my face. "You know that's my dream, sir, so rest assured... I'll put all of my effort into busting this ring."
"Make me proud, Somerville. I want you on a plane first thing in the morning. Head home and get packed up."
Walking out of Lambert's office, I head back to my desk down in the bullpen. I take a few moments to respond to some emails and set an auto responder that I'll be out indefinitely. Transferring a few files to some coworkers, I send the rest back to Lambert to reassign, and then jump online to Delta to make a plane reservation to Raleigh, North Carolina.
When that's all complete, I log off my computer and shut off my desk lamp. I take a look around the bullpen and shutter the smile on my face.
It's time to go undercover.
When I get home, I immediately crawl up into my small, dusty attic where I have a few boxes stored. Even though my dancer days are long over, I know I kept some of the costumes I had accumulated. Nostalgia, I guess, and maybe to remind myself that there is always a way to reach your goal, even if you have to swallow your pride a bit.
It doesn't take me long to find the box labeled "Law School" next to one labeled "Dad". I push the law school box aside for a moment, knowing it contains old textbooks, crib notes, and sparkly bras with tassels on them. Sitting back on the dusty floor, I open the one that simply says "Dad" and rummage through.
I flip through the old photographs of him and Mom, chronicling their love affair, their wedding, and then the arrival of my brother, Kyle. A few more years of memories, and there I am... being held by my father in a dark blue blanket with the U.S. Naval Academy crest on it in deep yellow. I run my finger over the picture... particularly the seal, which has a hand holding a three-pronged trident at the top and a galley ship in the middle. Below that sits an open book with the motto "Ex scientia tridens," which means, "From knowledge, seapower". Yeah... my dad was a Navy man for a brief time and while I very much wanted to be like him, that did not include any desire to follow in his footsteps to Annapolis. Instead, I did my undergrad and law school at the University of Virginia before applying to the Academy.
There aren't many photos of us together, because he died when I was just six months old.
Dropping the photos to the floor, I reach into the box, pull out the leather bound wallet, and flip it open.
Special Agent James Somerville.
I smooth my thumb over his picture, proud of the strong resemblance I have to him. Same golden-blond hair and crooked smile with a dimple in the right cheek but not the left. Kyle looks just the same.
My father became an FBI agent after he completed six years in the Navy after graduating from Annapolis. He was killed in the line of duty when he and the rest of his team closed in on a suspected serial killer who went out in a spray of bullets. He was a member of the BRIU, although it was called the Behavioral Science Unit at that time.
I place the mementos back in the box and issue up a silent prayer to my dad. "Watch over me, Daddy. Shit's about to get real."
Dusting my pants off, I rummage through my law school box and grab up the pile of sequined bras and thongs, as well as my only pair of hooker heels that may be a bit outdated but would work well toward my cover. If I'm supposed to be a girl down and out on her luck who has to resort to stripping, the clothing I show up with has to look secondhand.
As I walk back over to the folding staircase, a small, stray shoebox sitting just to the side of it catches my eye. It's not labeled, but I know what's in it. I reach down, pick it up, and bring it with me.
In the kitchen, I set the box and clothing on the counter and make myself a sandwich. I eat it with swift efficiency while standing at my Formica kitchen counter, looking out of the front window of my little bungalow house. I don't make much money as an FBI agent but enough that I was able to buy this little abode. Besides, it's not like I have anything else to spend my money on. I'm without close friends because I work all the time, so there's no drink budget for girls' nights out. Dating is out of the question because my heart is still too bruised since David broke up with me almost three weeks ago. And, even if I was ready to get back into the game, I have found most men's egos can't handle the fact I'm an FBI agent, so no need to spend my money on pretty clothes and silky lingerie. I don't even have a dog to keep me company because I'm never home, so there's no kibble or bones to buy. I have a modest clothing budget that keeps me in black dress slacks, French blue dress shirts, and fitted, black blazers. Add in professional yet sensible blac
k shoes, and you have the standard FBI uniform.
Rinsing my plate off and grabbing a beer from the fridge, I grab the stripper gear and box, heading into my bedroom. I pull my small suitcase from the closet and throw it on the bed. Dale told me this operation will be for an indefinite period of time and to pack lots of clothes. Sadly, what I have won't fill my large suitcase so it takes me no time whatsoever to get packed, and then I have nothing to do but wait for the next day to arrive.
I take a quick shower in my tiny bathroom, noticing a small area of rust at the base of the faucet. Fingering it lightly, I add a mental note to get that fixed when I get back. So many plans to update this house, yet I keep putting it off. I suppose that's because of my continued hope I'll get transferred to the BRIU, and that I'll be buying another house in Quantico, Virginia.
After donning a clean pair of underwear and an old Old Miss Law School t-shirt--a product of a short but failed love affair with a fellow FBI agent who also had graduated from law school there--I park myself on my faded brown couch with my beer and pull up the Contact list on my iPhone. A tap of my thumb to the screen and I'm dialing Kyle's cell.
"What's up, LPA?" Kyle says gruffly into the phone after the second ring.
LPA stands for Little Pain in the Ass. A bigger brother's prerogative, I guess.
"Not much, BPA," I say with a grin as I kick my bare feet up on the coffee table. And yeah... that stands for Big Pain in the Ass.
Kyle and I are fairly close, despite the physical distance that separates us. Strangely, I haven't told Kyle yet that David and I are no longer together. Maybe I'm hoping David will have a change of mind, or maybe I'm scared that the minute I tell Kyle, it will be real. Regardless, I have more important things with him to discuss right now, so my broken engagement will have to remain on the back burner.
"Catch any bad guys today?" he asks. I can hear ESPN's Sports Center on in the background, and I can envision Kyle sitting on his couch with a beer in his hand as well, booted feet kicked up on the coffee table, alone in his bachelor pad. He's three years older than me at age thirty and in many ways, we are eerily similar.
With a Twist Page 2
